by Krista Holt
I sigh, knowing I need to give her this. “It’s just a little bruise,” I warn, before slowly taking my scarf off.
She inhales sharply. “Oh…Reagan.”
Self consciously, I try to shield the worst of it with my hand, wondering if I’ve mistakenly grown immune to the fading mark on my neck. Maybe I’ve stared at the yellowish bruise too many times to be shocked by it anymore.
“Nic did this?” Her words are softly spoken and laced with disbelief.
“No,” I gasp. “No, he didn’t. It was the other guy, Saul, the one that was killed.”
She takes a deep breath and then quickly pushes to her feet. “I need a drink.”
I follow her into the kitchen. After searching through a few cabinets, she finds a bottle of cheap tequila, pours two glasses, and then hands one to me.
We drink in silence for a minute or two. The liquid in her glass disappears quicker than mine, but I’ve had plenty of time to get used to all of this. She hasn’t.
I slowly circle the bottom of the glass against the counter, watching the liquid rise up to kiss the rim. “What am I going to do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I can do. Everything is such a mess with him, with us. I don’t even know if there is an us. He probably hates me and wishes he’d never even met me.”
“Reagan, I don’t even think you believe that. Look at what he’s done for you. I mean, no matter how screwed up this all is—and believe me, it’s more than a little disturbing that all of this has been going on right under my nose and I’ve been oblivious to it—there’s no denying that what Nic feels for you is completely real.”
She nudges the bottle toward to me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Maybe too much has happened. Maybe I should let this go, let this all be a painful lesson I learned before I got on with my life…but…” My voice cracks.
Her expression softens. “You love him.”
“I do. I really do. But is that enough?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
I brace myself with another sip of the tequila and then nod.
“This isn’t a fairy tale. What he did, what he’s going to do, testifying against his father, that’s big. And isn’t it always going to be there? The danger of it, I mean. Do you actually get to walk away from whatever he was involved in, for good? Is that even possible?”
I don’t know. There are so many things I still don’t know, and so many things I want to ask him about.
“But,” she continues, “all of that is really beside the point. Because if you really love him, if you can’t imagine your life without him, you’ll stay with him no matter what. Even if he’s mad at you for awhile.” She pauses, tilting her head thoughtfully. “But is that what you want?”
“I don’t know that it matters. He’s never going to trust me again. I sold him out, Becca.”
“Because what he was doing was wrong. You didn’t know he was working with the FBI!”
“I know that, but should it have really mattered? Like you said, if I loved him, really loved him, I would have told the FBI no, because I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him. But I didn’t, I actively worked to get him arrested.”
“No, that’s not what I said, and you weren’t trying get him arrested. You were trying to prove that this Simmons guy was wrong about Nic. What Simmons did with your information is on him. It’s not like you actively tried to get Nic charged with murder. That’s what the FBI wanted.”
“I don’t think he sees it like that.”
“Ok.” She pours more tequila into our glasses. “Let me be the blunt object in the room and remind you that Nic’s put you through some pretty shitty stuff as well. You’re both guilty. No matter what happens, do not let him pin all of this on you. He screwed up, too.”
She’s right. We’re both responsible for this chaos. It doesn’t make me feel any better, though. If anything, it makes me feel worse, like our obstacles are insurmountable.
“Do you think that eventually you reach a point where it’s not worth it anymore? That the pain isn’t worth it?”
“Yes. You can reach a point where it’s not healthy anymore. In your case though, you’ve both finally started being honest with each other. You can’t give up now.”
I look at her, tears in my eyes. “He was so mad.”
“He was shocked. He’s going to need a minute to wrap his head around it. I need a minute to get used to it, too. This seems so surreal, crazy even.”
We fall quiet again, until Becca asks, “When the FBI approached you, how did you think this was going to end?”
“I thought it would be simple. One and done. I’d be able to prove Simmons’s assumptions were false, and then move on. Nic was never supposed to find out.”
“And now?”
“He may not want to see me again. His eyes…” I shudder, reliving it. The way his dark brown eyes flooded with pain. How he watched as I held his heart in my hands, and then crushed it in my palm. “…I don’t think I can handle him looking at me like that again. And he was pretty clear, he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“You did the same thing to him,” she gently reminds me. “But he refused to let you ignore him once he came back. He made you deal with him, forgive him. Maybe it’s your turn to be persistent now.”
“Even if I wanted to, I have no way to get a hold of him. He wasn’t answering his phone before, and I doubt he’ll be answering it from wherever the FBI has him stashed.”
“I get that, but talking about this with me isn’t going to get you the answers you want.”
“I don’t know how—” Wait! The card! The one Agent O’Neil gave me.
Dropping the glass on the counter, I run to my room. I tear apart my purse, and then my nightstand, and then my bathroom counter.
“What are you doing?” Becca joins me, eyeing me worriedly.
“The FBI agent, the one I met after blowing off the meeting Cameron set up, he gave me his business card. His contact information is on it, and since he was the same agent with Nic today, he’s got to know where he is.”
“Oh, okay. Where did you see it last? You’re sure it’s in your room? It wouldn’t be in the apartment somewhere?”
“No, it’s got to be in here.”
Nic’s bracelet. I remember now. I had stashed the card with the bracelet and shoved them both back in the leather jewelry case. Yanking open my dresser drawer, I dig around until I find the case, and the card.
Grabbing my phone, I quickly dial the number and hold my breath as it rings.
“This is Garrett,” he answers.
“Agent O’Neil? It’s Reagan Cooper.”
“Miss Cooper, are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine, but I need to talk to him. Please.”
He pauses, and I silently beg for him to agree.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you know. Honestly, if all you know about me is what you saw happen today, I don’t blame you for trying to shut me down, but there’s a lot you don’t know. Nic and I are complicated. All I’m asking for is a few minutes. That’s it. I just need a few minutes to talk to him. Please. Tell me where he is.”
He sighs heavily. “I can’t tell you that.”
“I get it. I do, you have a job to do, and you need to protect him. But—”
“But,” he talks over me, “I can have an agent pick you up in an hour and bring you to him.”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t promise he’ll see you,” he cautions. “But I can at least give you a few minutes to talk to him through a door, if nothing else.”
“I don’t care, I’ll take it.”
“Be ready to go in a hour. An agent will knock on your door. Leave behind your phones and anything that could be used to track you, okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be ready.”
&n
bsp; * * *
The minutes drag by.
Somehow, being stuck in the back of a dark SUV with a man I don’t know driving me to a hotel near the infamous Watergate complex stretches the physics of time.
After what seems like forever, we’re in the hotel and exiting an elevator somewhere above the fifteenth floor. My heart tries to run ahead. It pounds as we navigate a maze of hallways, twisting and turning through identical beige walls until a red-haired agent I recognize comes into view.
“Agent O’Neil.”
He smiles, gesturing me over. “Please, call me Garrett.”
“Okay, Garrett.” My eyes drift over his shoulder, to the closed door.
“Listen, Reagan—can I call you Reagan?”
“Sure.” I nod mindlessly, still staring beyond him, anxious to get inside.
“Okay then. Reagan…” He waits for my eyes to travel back to his face, his expression neutral. “There’s a lot riding on this, on him. I need his state of mind to be clear, to be focused. Witnesses who get distracted get killed.”
“I don’t want that to happen.”
“Then we agree. Get whatever you have to off your chest, but don’t leave him any more broken than he is. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He gestures to the agent who drove me here, and silently, the other man enters a hotel room down the hall, leaving us alone. Garrett raises his fist to knock, but he stops, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Brace yourself, he’s pretty pissed. Already broke a mirror and punched a hole in the wall.”
“He won’t hurt me.”
He knocks twice. “I know, but that doesn’t mean he’s not angry enough to say some things he might regret.”
I don’t have time to formulate a reply before a yell cuts through the flimsy hotel door.
“Leave me the hell alone!”
Garrett pounds on the door again, and seconds later, it’s almost ripped off its hinges. Nic jerks it open, slamming the handle into the wall.
Irritation sweeps over Garrett’s face and Nic levels his dark eyes at me. Anger flares in his irises, rage and frustration battling for dominance in his stiff stance.
“I don’t want to see her.”
My first instinct is to leave, to take what he says at face value. To do as I’m told. But I fight it. Becca’s words remind me of why I’m really here. It’s my turn to fight for us, and I can’t back down.
“That’s too bad,” I say softly, my throat suddenly dry. “Because I’m here, and I want to talk to you.”
I push past Garrett to stand before Nic, and even though his frame takes up most of the doorway, I slide inside, pressing myself against him. He inhales sharply and draws back, revealing a torn up hotel room. Shattered remnants of a mirror lie on the carpet, a sizable fist-shaped hole mars the wall, and the pieces of a broken lamp and chair are scattered across the room.
“Try to keep it down,” Garrett warns. “And for God’s sake, Selvaggio, don’t destroy any more of this hotel room.”
Neither of us responds, too focused on the other as Nic slams the door shut. Tense silence takes back over, filling the small room and the space in between us. I try not to let the contempt on his face touch my heart. If it does, it’ll freeze it. Shatter it.
“I’m sorry,” I finally whisper.
The apology hangs there, crumbling to dust as the seconds tick by.
“You’re sorry?” Anger and sarcasm tinge the words, turning them sour.
“Yes.” I nod, nervously licking my bottom lip.
His gaze narrows into slits. “I don’t believe you.”
“I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for you to get arrested. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop saying that!” His voice knocks me back, as if it hit me physically. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t. Damn it, I was supposed to be able to trust you! You—out of all the backstabbing, lying, corrupt people I’ve come in contact with, you were the worst, because I didn’t expect it from you. I trusted you!”
His accusation stings, because he’s not wrong. He should have been able to trust me, just like I should have been able to trust him.
“You know, what gets me is that you knew! You knew! Why the hell didn’t you say something? Or tell me? Everything could have been different. Better. So much easier, if you had just told me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” my voice climbs, losing its timidity. “You could have told me the truth! But no, I had to find out from two strangers in suits as they sat me down and told me the man I was head over heels for was a criminal. A liar. A fraud.”
He stops short and a dark smirk twists his lips. “And here I thought you took the news especially well the night Saul grabbed you. But no, it turns out, you already knew who I was and had been spying on me the whole damn time. Betraying me!”
“You mean the night you kidnapped me? Pulled me off the street, made me think I was going to die—at your hands? That kind of betrayal? Or maybe the time you left me, and disappeared without a word!”
I suck in air, surprised by the venom in my words and the anger I’ve held onto. He’s upset, I get that, but we were both wrong. I might have betrayed him, but he betrayed me, too.
Still, my conscience nags at me, telling me this has always been our problem. We’ve been too busy fighting each other to even know what it takes to be a team, to fight together.
“Damn it, Reagan.”
“Damn you, Nic!” I shout back. “I said I was sorry, what more do you want? Should I beg, plead? Would that make you feel better? Because we’re both responsible for this, and you know it!”
He turns, stalking toward me. I take as many steps backward as I can. Until I hit the wall. With my hands up, I try to put some space between us, but he doesn’t retreat. If anything, my actions embolden him. He grabs me, hot hands gripping my hips, snapping them toward him. It hurts, but I bite my lip, refusing to cave.
“You have no idea how this feels,” he growls. “Realizing that the person I would have done anything for has been acting like she tolerates my presence. Acting like she loves me.”
“I think out of anyone—” I shove at his chest. “—I know exactly how that feels.”
“What was this to you, Reagan? A game?” he asks, close to my face. Every exhale brushes against my skin, and his pain is almost tangible. “What did you get out of all this? Did you laugh at how you pulled one over on me? Huh? Did you get your kicks out of screwing with me?”
His questions come fast and harsh, like punches. Designed to hurt, to make me flinch.
“You think it was fun for me?” I gasp. “That I enjoyed it? Because I didn’t.”
“Then, why?” He grabs my upper arms, shaking me.
“Let go,” I demand.
“Why, Reagan? Tell me why.” His grip tightens, bringing a flash of pain. “TELL ME WHY!”
“I know that you’re upset, but…” My voice shakes with every emotion coursing through my body. My legs start to give out, and I slide down the wall, out of his hold, landing in a heap on the floor. Unable to stop the tears, the pain in my chest making itself known with a sob.
He drops to his knees in front of me. He reaches out to touch me, but at the last minute pulls back.
“Reagan, just tell me.” His dark eyes are tormented, searching my face as he waits for me to crush him. “I need to know…was it real?”
CHAPTER 24
Nic
SHE CRUMBLES BEFORE MY EYES.
Tears fall and her face is downcast. Every part of my body is in pain, and the fist I used to punch the wall and my ribs are the least of it. My chest hurts, and my heart physically aches. I’ve never felt this devastated in my life.
She lied to me. About everything.
Selfishly, I want to hurt her. I want her to feel the pain I’m in. But looking at her, I know she already does. She’s probably felt it for a long time. Every time I dodged her questions or fed her vague answers it probably burned. Pricked as a reminder of
everything I was keeping from her.
I can’t bring myself to touch her, to comfort her. I don’t trust myself with her anymore.
“Was it real?” I ask again, my voice wrecked and raw.
Watery blue eyes pierce my heart as she looks at me, moisture trailing down her face. “It was, to me.”
My shoulders fall, and I scrape my hands over my face. “Reagan.”
Her admission calms me, breaking off some of the fear that attacked me when I found out. The fear that taunted me, that told me everything was fake, a con. Ever since I left the Rayburn building, I kept asking myself—had I thrown my life away for a lie?
“Don’t lie to me.” I stare at her. “Not about this.”
“I’m not lying,” she cries. “Everything was real for me. Was any of it real for you?”
“Of course it was. Look at what I did for you…”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m so, so sorry.”
I sigh, heavily. This woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her. All soft curves and sharp wit, and a smile I would kill for. I used to sit back and wonder how she managed to get under my skin, to assimilate herself so seamlessly into my existence that I couldn’t imagine living without her. Even if I had tried, a piece of me would’ve always been missing.
She wipes at her tears, setting her face with determination as she waits for me to say something. The lover in me wants to absolve her of her sins, to take her in my arms and soothe away her worries. But the fighter, the man my father beat me into being, he isn’t ready to grant her forgiveness. Not yet. Not until he’s got his pound of flesh.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving her. Or stopped caring for her.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head, wiping at the moisture on her cheeks. “N-no. I did this to myself, and I am sorry. I never wanted this to happen. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Simmons didn’t tell me all this.”
Cooling anger flares back to life at that bastard’s name. After we left, Garrett explained how Simmons and his allegations about Saul’s murder had forced him to move the raid of my father’s house up. Because one of us was getting arrested yesterday, and it was either my father or me.
